


Flurry

by cheshirecat101



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - High School, Dark Sherlock, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Jim Is Good, M/M, Minor Violence, Non-Consensual Touching, Obsessive Sherlock, Possessive Sherlock, Rape/Non-con Elements, Student John, Teacher Sherlock, Teacher-Student Relationship, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-15
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-25 13:02:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2622758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cheshirecat101/pseuds/cheshirecat101
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes being the teacher's pet has unintended consequences, in this case dangerous ones. John can't see a way out of his 'relationship' with Sherlock, until one Jim Moriarty offers his help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flurry

**Author's Note:**

> Wow, so this is actually done and I'm so pleased. This was a commission for the lovely [QuinnCliff](http://archiveofourown.org/users/QuinnCliff/pseuds/QuinnCliff), who asked for Sherlock as a teacher abusing his student, John, and Jim, another teacher finds out. I hope you like it, darling!
> 
> Friendly reminder that I do commissions! If you're interested, please email me at the email address on my profile! Enjoy the fic!

_Hurry, hurry_   
_You put my head in such a flurry, flurry_   
_Oh freckle, freckle_   
_What makes you so special?_   
_What makes you so special?_   
_I'm gonna leave you_   
_I'm gonna teach you_   
_How we're all alone_   
_How we're all alone_

 

“Oh, and Mr. Watson—please see me after class.”  
There it was. That dreaded phrase, the malediction that came at the end of nearly every class and that John dreaded more than anything in the world. Those words were a curse, a black spot on his otherwise pristine life. His life was good. His family situation wasn’t the best, but he went to a good school, got good grades, had friends, had a nice social life, played on the rugby team…Everything was pretty good. Aside from that phrase, and the consequences that came with it.

 

_Hot breath against the back of his neck, nails digging into his hips hard enough to draw blood._

“Yes, Mr. Holmes,” was the reply that was expected of him, the one he always gave. He didn’t have any choice but to give that answer, was trapped into saying yes even though he desperately wanted to say no. Wanted to scream no, yell it from the top of his lungs as he ran as far away from this godforsaken classroom as he could. But he couldn’t do that. Mr. Holmes had made it very clear that he couldn’t do that.

 

_Sweat and pain and the sounds of grunts behind him, a whispered, “There’s a good boy.”_

All of the other students packed up their stuff quickly as the bell rang, eager to get to their next class and escape the ever present, observant gaze of Mr. Holmes, piercing ice blue eyes that turned pale mint green under the fluorescent lights of the school. Eyes that seemed perpetually fixed on John in class, and John didn’t know what, exactly, he’d done to warrant Mr. Holmes’s attention. Any of it. He packed his things up slowly, taking his time because the longer he dawdled the longer he could put this off.

From the corner of his eye he could see Mr. Holmes— _“Sherlock when we’re alone, John”_ — _Sherlock_ shutting and locking the door to the classroom as the last few dawdlers dwindled out, and a sudden tightness appeared in John’s chest, the pressure of stress making it hard for him to breathe. He was limited to short, quick breaths, nearly panting, as he closed up his backpack and stood, already feeling those eyes on him from the front of the room. He barely lifted his eyes, still not making eye contact, and saw Sherlock seated at his desk at the front, fingers steepled together as he watched, no, stared _down_ John, waiting with a clear, quietly contained impatience. It was clear that he was already ready, as he always was, when John was still struggling to breathe. It hardly seemed fair, but then again, none of this was fair. John hadn’t done anything to deserve this in his life.

“Come here, please, John.”

Always the use of his first name when they were alone, informal, like they weren’t teacher and student, like they knew each other normally, like this wasn’t an incredibly fucked up situation and Sherlock wasn’t about to—about to—

No, god no, he couldn’t complete that thought, he was already starting to shake as he took a step towards the front of the room, then another, each one an effort as he struggled to just place one foot in front of the other. Sherlock could see it, he _knew_ he could see it, but the teacher’s only response was a slight twist of his lips up into an amused little smirk. Oh god, the bastard got off on this, didn’t he? He _liked_ John’s fear, liked the sweating and the shaking and he would probably love it if John cried. But John refused to give him the satisfaction. He wouldn’t cry in front of Sherlock, he’d never cry in front of him. No. He took enough from John, he didn’t need that too.

John stopped in front of Sherlock’s desk, and now, and only now, dared to lift his eyes to Sherlock’s. Oh god no. There was a wicked gleam there, a particular sort of sadism that only came when he was having particularly bad days. Someone must have pissed him off earlier, and now it was going to be John’s job to just take all of that frustration and anger, take it all and receive nothing in return for his pain. He nearly shuddered upon seeing those eyes, hungry as they were, and the corners of Sherlock’s lips twitched up a bit higher before dropping altogether, smile gone.

“Stay right there,” he commanded, and John stayed very, very still, like a rabbit caught under the gaze of a fox. His heart was beating fast enough to be a rabbit and Sherlock was just as clever as a fox, so it was appropriate, wasn’t it? Oh god, now he was thinking in metaphors, fear made him poetic, it seemed. Hurt hurt hurt it hurt to breathe but he was still doing it because now he felt dizzy, lightheaded with fear as Sherlock stood, sidling around the edge of the desk towards him.

“There’s no need to be afraid, John, you’ve done this before,” Sherlock murmured, coming closer until John could feel him behind him, could feel the slight body heat that Sherlock was exuding as he pressed up against John, John taking a shuddering inhale. But he didn’t move.

“Good boy,” Sherlock said, and John felt the lightest touch of a hand to his hip, barely there, but there all the same. He wasn’t sure why it always started out this way; Sherlock treating him gently, delicately, as if he was an ancient artifact bound to crumble into dust if handled too irreverently. Why did it start out that way, when it always devolved into…well.

 

_Pain and pain and pain and pain and he couldn’t breathe, a strong pale hand wrapped around his wrists to hold him in place._

They passed a minute in silence like this, Sherlock’s hand gently on his hip as Sherlock just breathed him in, seeming to savor his presence alone, and nothing more. Oh, but there was always more. Sherlock always wanted everything from him, even when John had nothing left to give him. He didn’t anymore, he just didn’t. He was drained dry, completely empty and devoid of, well…everything. Ever since he landed with Sherlock as his teacher, his life had seemed to be in a downward spiral that he couldn’t break out of. His grades were suffering, his social life was suffering, and his home life…well, his home life had been suffering anyway. But this didn’t make it any better. This didn’t make anything any better.

He realized abruptly just how loud his breathing was, sharp in the silence between them, but he couldn’t stop. Couldn’t get it under control, couldn’t handle it at the moment, and he heard a deep, amused chuckle from behind him. Sherlock was definitely a bastard for this, and John could only desperately hope that there was some sort of cosmic, karmic retribution coming his way for this. He deserved all of this pain back and more. But wasn’t the only way to take out a predator a larger predator? And John wasn’t lucky enough to have one of those on his side, and doubted he would ever be.

Sure, he’d considered going to someone with this. Headmaster, police, his parents, another teacher. But he couldn’t. Sherlock had laid out very carefully in a very logical argument why exactly he couldn’t go to someone about this. _“Firstly, there’s very little reason for them to believe you, John. I’m a tenured teacher and you’re a seventeen year old boy, who are they more likely to believe? Especially since your parents know you like to lie, do it often for your sister Harriet. And she gets all of the attention in the family, negative as it is, due to her sexuality. So why wouldn’t poor little neglected John make up a lie to get their attention? Something terrible, something scandalous. Pin it on Mr. Holmes, the eccentric genius that nobody likes. Your least favorite teacher, your classmates will attest to that. No one would believe you, John, and if they did I can out-argue them any day of the week. So don’t bother trying and wasting everyone’s time.”_

He was right, too. Nobody would believe him. He was a kid, and Sherlock was a genius. Sherlock would be able to talk his way out of it, or create alibis, or run down an entire, completely logical explanation as to why he couldn’t have done it. Again, the only way to destroy a predator was with a larger predator, and since John couldn’t tell anyone, how could he find one of those? Besides, who was a bigger predator than Sherlock Holmes? Who on earth could measure up to a psychopathic genius, take him down and beat him at his own game? John certainly couldn’t do it, and he didn’t know anyone who could.

Sherlock’s hand was moving, oh god, it was moving, and John knew how this ended. He squeezed his eyes shut, breathing picking up speed so that he was panting now, breathing hard and fast, nearly wheezing, as Sherlock’s hand moved to the buckle of his belt and slowly slid the imitation leather out of the silver buckle.

“Stay quiet, John,” Sherlock commanded, but gently, using a tone that John had a feeling wouldn’t be out of place between lovers. But that’s not what this was, that’s not at all what this was, and John refused to open his eyes, refused to accept the reality of what was happening right now. He didn’t need to see Sherlock’s hand to know what it was doing, could feel it as it unbuckled the front of his pants and slowly, so carefully, pulled down the zipper to his trousers. He shook his head, a slight noise making its way out of his throat, and Sherlock gently kissed his cheek.

“Shh, it’s alright. You’ve done this before.”

Was that supposed to make it better? Was that supposed to make him fucking feel better? Anger licked in slow flames in John’s chest, and that was a refreshing change. Usually he only associated fear with Sherlock, so anger was a refreshing emotion to feel, something new, something different. But without an outlet, the anger didn’t have anywhere to go, it just made it even harder for him to stay still, shaking under the pressure, and he couldn’t move, couldn’t move, couldn’t move and that was so damn hard. He just wanted to turn and run from the room, but the most he could do was try to dissociate himself from what was happening while it went on. But he couldn’t ignore Sherlock’s hand slipping down the front of his trousers.

“There’s a good boy.”

Sherlock’s baritone was warm, pleased, nearly a purr, and suddenly, John couldn’t handle it anymore. He shoved away from the desk, knocking back into Sherlock, who stumbled a step back from him. A step was all he needed, as John slipped loose of Sherlock’s grip and ran for the door. The only problem was the damn lock that didn’t want to turn, and oh god oh god oh god he wasn’t going to make it out, the stupid thing was jammed, he was stuck in here he was stuck in here Jesus Christ no he had to get out now—

A low growl sounded from behind him and John froze, suddenly feeling very, very trapped. Oh god. He was afraid to turn, afraid to move, afraid to even breathe, and it was certainly hard to do any of those things right now.

“John.”

There was so much anger in that word, so much cold fury that John could nearly taste the ice in the air, and very abruptly he realized that he’d made a terrible mistake. And now he was going to pay for it. He hesitated, one hand still on the lock and the other on the doorknob, breaths quick, short, the frightened breathing of a cornered animal. He was oh god he was one, trapped, pinned, penned in by Sherlock, who’d managed to cut off his escape before it even began. If he had one comfort it was that Sherlock probably hadn’t seen that coming, had probably been surprised bordering on shocked that John had actually decided to fight back.

This was confirmed when Sherlock said, breathing slightly ragged, “You’re a surprising little thing, aren’t you? Always unexpected, that’s part of what I like about you, John. Every other student I have is boring, ordinary, dull, but not you.” He could hear Sherlock take a step towards him and he hadn’t thought his body could become any tenser but apparently it could as his spine tightened, back completely straight. “Oh _no_ , not you, John Watson. You’re something special. Different. And I like you.”

“Why?” It was one word, and nearly strangled when it came out, but he managed to get it out all the same, as afraid as he was of using his voice, setting off the monster that was already so very angry.

Sherlock chuckled, and there was something dark in it that John didn’t like at all. He hated it when Sherlock got into these moods, when he got truly frightening. He was scarier when he laughed and smiled at John. Another step closer, his shoes squeaking just slightly on the linoleum. “Because you make me better.”

That was apparently the only answer he was going to get, as Sherlock took two quick steps forward and then he was on him, one hand wrapped around John’s throat, tilting his head back, and the other arm wrapped around his waist, pulling him back from the door. John made a half gasping noise in his throat, unable to get anything else out because of the hand on his throat, just tight enough to restrict his breathing, but not cut it off completely. He tried, oh god, he tried to get free, kicking and thrashing and hitting, but Sherlock had the advantage of height and apparently strength, that slender frame deceptive, those collared shirts hiding a developed musculature. In a minute he had John secured and threw him against the desk, John’s hip banging against it sharply and causing him to cry out in pain, though it was muffled in a second as Sherlock’s hand clapped over his mouth, John making a soft whimpering noise in his throat.

“Hush,” Sherlock ordered, baritone low, commanding, and John didn’t have a choice but to obey, as much as his hip was throbbing from where it’d slammed against the desk and as much as he wanted to cry out for help. He couldn’t do either of those things, simply staying still, perfectly still, as Sherlock turned him around to face the desk, shifting behind him again.

“You shouldn’t have run, John.” The words were short, clipped, a clear anger in them that frightened John as much as it should have, and perhaps more. There was no end to his terror when it came to Sherlock. “That was a poor decision on your part. We could have gotten this over with much sooner, but now I think I’ll take my time. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

John quickly nodded his agreement, afraid of the consequences if he didn’t, and Sherlock chuckled darkly and laid a quick kiss on his cheek before pulling away from him entirely, taking a step back. John didn’t dare make a run for it. “Well then, Mr. Watson. On your knees.”

***

There was something special about John Watson. It took Sherlock a while to notice it, busy as he was with actually teaching the class, but once he did, he couldn’t look away. No, his attention was now fixed perpetually on John Watson, on the student that at first seemed normal, innocuous, as boring as the rest of them. Oh, but John was anything but.

He first noticed it during class discussion, something that he loathed to do because most of his students were idiots who didn’t have a single original thought in their heads. The first time John raised his hand, Sherlock nearly rolled his eyes, expecting nothing but further idiocy from the rugby player. Instead, he was pleasantly surprised when John opened his mouth and actual sense came out, real words and thoughts and feelings that were intelligent, well thought out. He managed to build upon the things Sherlock said, asking the right questions to actually make Sherlock stop and think, challenge his intellect.

It was fantastic. Sherlock found himself getting eager for class discussions, excited to hear what it was that John was going to say next, what fantastic thing he was going to say that would get Sherlock thinking and actually using his brain that day. John made him better. John made him smarter, faster, stronger, better, simply by existing and talking to him. Sherlock started asking him to stay after class simply to have discussions with him, talk to him about whatever topic was bothering Sherlock at the moment. It was convenient, because Sherlock’s class was the last class of the day, so unless John had rugby practice he gladly stayed after to talk to the teacher, seeming slightly bemused about the whole thing but pleased nonetheless.

And then it got worse. Sherlock started to want to see John outside of school, craved his presence when he was at home, thinking, working, grading papers or eating or sleeping or showering or—okay, so he was mildly obsessed. Just a touch, just fascinated by John and the way that he spoke and acted and thought and god, _everything_. He couldn’t help it. John Watson was a fantastic creature, and Sherlock was lucky to have come across him, accidental as it was.

But there was a problem. Multiple problems, actually, unfortunately, but there was a rather large one. As time went on, it became more and more apparent to Sherlock that he was attracted to John. At first, it was innocent enough, just him noticing how soft John’s lips looked, or how nice that jumper fit him, or how pretty his blue eyes were. But it got worse from there, a fast slide that he was unprepared for. Suddenly it was how nicely his arse fit those pants, how gorgeous he looked when sweaty after a rugby game—because, oh yes, Sherlock started attending those, if only to see John play when he’d previously expressed zero interest—how good his lips would look wrapped around a c—no. That was a bad idea to have. These were all bad ideas to have, and he was unsure how to approach them. What was one supposed to do when they felt sexually attracted to their student?

Oh, but it was so much more than sexual. John was perfect, absolutely flawless, from head to toe and Sherlock had to have him. He knew he did, otherwise he’d go insane. With each passing day his hunger grew greater and greater, until he was positive that he was going to go insane if he didn’t have John in some capacity, even if it was just a kiss. Just a simple, innocent kiss.

But Sherlock slipped on a kiss and tumbled into obsession, unable to stop himself from falling head over heels for John. One minute, he was just a student that Sherlock had forced a kiss on one afternoon while they were alone, the next he was everything that Sherlock wanted, everything that he hadn’t realized he needed.

But John didn’t want him. John had made it very clear after the initial kiss that he wanted nothing to do with it, pushing him away and shaking his head as he repeatedly said, “No, no, no, this is wrong, Mr. Holmes,” until he could bolt from the classroom, leaving Sherlock alone, and completely disappointed.

John didn’t want him. It’d been easy, obvious to deduce during and after the kiss, the blatant lack of reciprocation making it clear. Of course, Sherlock had known that there was a chance that John wouldn’t reciprocate, that he wouldn’t return the sentiments that Sherlock so wholeheartedly offered him. So openly, so dangerously offered him. Because it was dangerous for Sherlock to feel these things for John. Just a few years ago, they had had a teacher obsessed with a student—last name something with a G?—and the teacher had murdered the student’s entire family and been sent to prison for it, along with a few other rather nasty crimes that he was accused of. All of which, of course, Sherlock would have been able to deduce upon meeting him, but he’d never run across the teacher in his time here and he had a feeling that was on purpose. After all, his reputation was spread throughout the entire school; the teacher who could deduce you with just a look. Not to be confused with Jim Moriarty, the teacher who could also deduce you in a look but would use it against you somehow. Sherlock didn’t bother using his gift to blackmail people, that would have been too dull.

Instead, he used it to try to size up John Watson before he made his move, gauge where the boy’s feelings were ahead of time. And truly, it’d seemed favorable. John always had a particular sparkle in his eyes when he talked to Sherlock, a certain light that wasn’t present when he was just around classmates, or even his friends. He seemed excited every time he saw Sherlock, ready for their discussions together and glad to have this time alone with him. His body language, too, was favorable, the way he leaned in towards Sherlock, the open way he held himself around him, loose despite the fact that they were teacher and student. That line was getting more and more blurred every day leading up to the day Sherlock kissed him, so could he really be blamed for thinking that John reciprocated? It was hardly his fault that he’d made the mistake.

And what a mistake it was. There hadn’t been any panic that John was going to report him, just a dull, hollow pain in his chest at the fact that John had rejected him. After all, he knew John wasn’t going to tell anyone what had happened; John wanted to assume the best in people, and would probably want to give Sherlock the benefit of the doubt, chalk it up to a moment of weakness. He probably believed Sherlock could be ‘fixed’, that this was just an honest mistake and it wouldn’t be made again. He was probably expecting an apology for Sherlock’s actions when, the day after the kiss, Sherlock said at the end of class, “Mr. Watson, please see me after class.”

John had approached his desk so cautiously, so carefully as the last of the other students filed out of the room. He flinched slightly when Sherlock suddenly stood, almost as if he was afraid the teacher was going to repeat his actions from yesterday, and didn’t look exactly relieved when Sherlock calmly walked to the door and locked it.

“We need to discuss what happened yesterday,” Sherlock said, voice quite even, steady, not betraying a hint of the underlying hurt that was there just below the surface.

John nodded cautiously, holding his books a little closer to his chest. His body language was defensive now, his position carefully calculated to put him in a good position to run if he needed to, though Sherlock wasn’t sure that it was on purpose at this point. John would make such a good soldier, wouldn’t he? He did take orders so well, after all, as Sherlock would later learn.

“I’m not going to apologize for what I did, because I’m not sorry. I am in love with you, John Watson, and I refuse to apologize for that. I don’t care if it’s considered wrong because you’re a student and I’m your teacher.” His voice dropped low, serious, hushed, like he was talking about something wrong, something meant for only his ears and John’s. Which he was. “I _want_ you, John. And no matter what you say, I’m going to have you.”

John was still trying to stammer out a sentence when Sherlock closed the distance between them and kissed him again, hard. It was lips and teeth and tongue and though John didn’t kiss back, he remained slack, pliant, probably too shocked to react. That was, until he came to his senses and _shoved_ Sherlock away, though Sherlock’s hands remained on his hips, refusing to let go even as John tried to push him away, a little panic coming into his motions.  
“No, Sherlock—” the use of the first name sent a little thrill through Sherlock “—this is wrong, we shouldn’t be doing this, I don’t feel that way about you.”

“Oh, but don’t you, John?” His baritone was low, conspiratorial, nearly breathy, and John stopped what he was doing, staring at him, looking into the intense eyes that changed shades with the lighting but were always dangerously pretty regardless. “I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention. I’ve heard the way that your voice shapes my name, the way it sounds wrapped around each syllable. I’ve seen the secret little smiles you have whenever I ask you to stay after class. I’ve heard the way you talk about me when your friends ask why you stay after so much. I’ve caught your eyes on me in the middle of a rugby match when you should be paying attention to the field. I _know_ you, John, and I can tell how you feel better than you can.” A smile curled over his lips, something almost gentle in it, tender. Showing the truth depths of his feelings for John, and god, that seemed to scare him. Yes, that was certainly fear in John’s eyes, and Sherlock’s brow furrowed over pale mint green eyes, trying to figure out why this knowledge would scare John. Ah, he was afraid of his own feelings. He hadn’t admitted them to himself, and so didn’t want to face them now, didn’t want to hear the truth in Sherlock’s words.

“It’s alright, John,” he soothed, moving in closer to him, and John automatically tried to take a step back, only to find himself backed against the desk. Sherlock instantly caged him in, putting his hands on the desk on either side of him to trap him firmly against it. He didn’t want John going anywhere, didn’t want him to run away again like he had last time. They needed to have this discussion, needed to establish the truth between them. The truth that John wanted this just as much as Sherlock did. Sherlock was nearly desperate for John to admit that, the need itching at the back of his mind, clawing at his brain until it was nearly painful. He _needed_ John to admit it, had to have it. And now.

“There’s no need to be afraid.” His voice was low, hushed, carefully put into tones meant to be soothing, relaxing. He raised a hand and John instantly flinched, what a sad thing. What a pity, that John had been trained by his circumstances to expect a hit when a hand was raised. Instead, Sherlock gently laid his palm on the side of John’s face, though this only seemed to serve to make John more afraid. He was afraid of gentleness, it seemed, of the care that Sherlock was taking with him. As if he expected violence at any moment. But Sherlock wasn’t going to hurt him, would never want to lay a finger against John in a violent way. Not unless he had to.

“I’m not trying to scare you, John. I’m simply telling you the truth,” he said, voice a little breathless, a touch excited, because he knew the truth, he did, he knew how John really felt about him, try as he might to deny it. “I know you don’t want to believe me, but you know it’s true just as much as I do. You. Like. _Me_.” Perhaps not as much as Sherlock liked— _loved_ —John, but that was alright. He only needed John to feel a little bit, a fraction of what Sherlock felt for him, and then they could be together. As Sherlock wanted them to be. “Don’t try fighting it, John, just give in. Things are so much better if you give in.”

He leaned in to kiss John and John turned away, forcing the kiss to land on his cheek. That wasn’t what he wanted at all. He took John by the chin with long musician’s fingers, turning him back to face him again, and leaned in to gently press his lips to John’s. John’s mouth was a hard, unyielding line, his lips firmly pressed together to keep Sherlock out, and that was such a shame. Sherlock would have liked to taste him, would have liked to know the feeling of John’s tongue against his own. But he’d have to settle for this for now.

He pulled away after a minute, absinthe eyes watching John for something, anything, any sign of a reaction. All he found was that John wouldn’t make eye contact with him, something hard in his expression. “I’d like to go home now, sir,” John said after a moment, and Sherlock sighed, dropping his hand from John’s chin.

“You can’t go home, not right now,” he answered quickly, baritone clipped, short, mildly irritated. John wasn’t behaving the way that he wanted him to, not at all, and Sherlock was starting to get worried. Had he miscalculated? No, that couldn’t be it. He _knew_ John felt the same. He had to. “I’m not letting you go until you admit the truth.”

John let out a strangled noise, something between exasperated and distressed. “I told you the truth yesterday. This is wrong, Mr. Holmes.” He made eye contact with him at that, blue eyes far too sincere for Sherlock’s liking. “I don’t feel that way about you.”

“Of course you do,” Sherlock said dismissively, so sure of himself that he absolutely knew he couldn’t be wrong. It just wasn’t possible.

John took a deep, measured breath, eyes flicking away from Sherlock’s before flicking back. “I don’t feel that way about you,” he said, and god, he sounded so sure of himself. Sherlock frowned, confused as to how John sounded so sure and displeased that he was this much in denial about it.

“Stop lying to me.” The words were short, clipped, definitely irritated now, bordering on the edge of something much darker.

John’s gaze was far too steady, far too firm as he looked back at Sherlock. “I’m not lying to you, sir.”

“Stop _lying to me!_ ” It was an irritated growl, a frustrated shout, and John didn’t even flinch, staring resolutely back at him. Sherlock was getting angrier and angrier by the second and suddenly he couldn’t stand it anymore. He attacked John’s lips in a kiss, his free hand going to undo the belt of John’s pants. John’s hands instantly shot down to stop him, but Sherlock growled against his lips, using his free hand to grab both of John’s, long fingers aiding him in securing his grip so John couldn’t struggle free, using the strength that he usually kept hidden, not needing it in his daily life. He needed it now as John was thrashing against him, trying to push him off, trying to push him away, trying to do anything to escape as Sherlock quickly and efficiently undid his belt and pants.

He was too hungry to ignore it anymore, too desperate for John to just let him go, let him free, let him continue being the tempter that he was without some sort of consequences for his ceaseless teasing of Sherlock. Because it had to be on purpose. John had to want this too, otherwise he wouldn’t act the way he did around Sherlock. Wouldn’t emphasize his best features, wouldn’t lick his lips and lean against Sherlock’s desk in a way that highlighted his hips and thighs. John wanted this too, he had to, even though he was saying no and trying to push Sherlock away.

“Please, Sherlock, no, please don’t do this, please, I’ll scream—”

“You won’t scream,” Sherlock said, a laugh nearly bubbling up in his throat, turning into a dark chuckle as it came out. His voice was heavy but hushed, laden with a dark desire that needed to be expressed, and now. It’d been dormant for too long, hidden away because it was unforgivable, taboo. Well that was too fucking bad, because he wasn’t waiting anymore. “If you do, I’ll tell them you attacked me. I can fake the marks in time before they get here, and they’ll believe me because I’m the adult, I’m the tenured teacher, I’m the well-known genius. Why would I lie? Why would I try to force myself on a student, especially someone as ordinary as little old John Watson? No one would believe you, John, so shut up and stop fighting.”

He kissed him, hard, more teeth and tongue than anything, and this time John didn’t fight him, didn’t try to push him away. As things progressed, as Sherlock got closer to his goal, yes, he did fight again, but he didn’t scream. He begged, he pleaded, he tried to wriggle free, but he didn’t scream. And in the end, Sherlock got what he wanted. Again. And again. And again. It didn’t stop after that afternoon, no, now Sherlock was addicted. Addicted to the way that John’s skin felt against his, to the way that John tasted, even to the way that John wriggled and writhed underneath him in an effort to break free.

So it continued. Sherlock would ask John to stay after class, John would be forced to agree in front of the entire class, and then when they were alone…well. A slow smirk found its way onto Sherlock’s lips every time he thought about it. And he thought about it quite a bit. John seemed to constantly occupy his thoughts, and now he had him. Mind, soul, and certainly in body. It didn’t matter that John didn’t seem to enjoy it, Sherlock knew that he did and was merely acting to preserve what, exactly? His dignity? Perhaps. John was such an upstanding citizen, he’d never want to be involved in something so illicit. But he was now, whether he wanted to be or not. And it was glorious.

Of course, someday it was all going to come crashing down. Sherlock knew that. He just hadn’t expected for it to be so soon.

***

Jim rarely stayed after to do his work, not particularly caring that some of his students claimed they needed his help in the rather difficult AP Calculus class that he taught. He referred them to websites and seminars, preferring not to do the actual dirty work of staying after school to help them in person. He was required to help out at least occasionally, however, which meant that once a week he found himself staying after with nearly the entire class to answer any questions that they had. He didn’t make it easy for them, however; he changed what day of the week it was every week and only announced it the day of, so you were out of luck if you happened to have something else after school that day. He never claimed to be a fair teacher, though he was fair in his grading, if a bit harsh. A simple side effect of being surrounded by idiots all the time.

So Thursday afternoon of this week found him staying after, droning on and on in a boring lecture that he hated to give, answering questions that were honestly just so _stupid_ that he could hardly believe that these people were still breathing. He lounged at his desk, feet propped up as he refused to demonstrate things on the board unless he had to, and he usually had to as the idiots didn’t comprehend what he was saying without pretty pictures to accompany it. So he stood as needed, scribbling in a left-handed scrawl on the board that the class had about a fifty percent chance of being able to follow.

This one wasn’t particularly painful, as the topic for the week wasn’t terribly complicated, and so it ended earlier than usual, the students filing out as they all chattered incessantly about whatever gossip it was that was currently circulating the school. Jim listened in but didn’t find anything particularly valuable, and was packing up his materials when one John Watson came running in, slightly breathless from clearly having run here.

Jim didn’t even look at him, too busy putting papers in his briefcase. “You’re too late, Mr. Watson, the lesson’s already over.”  
“Please, I was with another teacher, I couldn’t leave,” John said, and there was something off about his voice, something that Jim couldn’t quite place, that made him actually look up at John.

Something was wrong. Jim could tell that immediately, barely had to use his powers of observation to deduce it. But what he did deduce…well. John was a mess. His clothes were slightly askew, the shirt underneath his jumper untucked, his blazer off and mysteriously absent, everything a little ruffled and rumpled. Beyond that, there were hickeys adorning his neck that were beautifully fresh, the skin of his throat peppered through with red that was turning into a darker purple with every second that passed. His face was flushed, though whether that was from running here or not was debatable. What wasn’t debatable was that John had just been off shagging someone, or thereabouts. Though that explanation didn’t quite feel right to Jim for some reason. Something was wrong here, but he couldn’t place it.

He raised an eyebrow, making it clear that he wasn’t convinced by that explanation. “What teacher?” he asked, tone also making it abundantly clear that he didn’t believe John.

“Sh—Mr. Holmes,” John answered in a very small voice, as if afraid to say the name. And god, he did look afraid, didn’t he? That’s what it was. He looked afraid, frightened, like a rabbit that’d seen a wolf and lived to tell the tale. Why, though?

Jim took a step towards John and noted how John instantly flinched back, as if about to make a run for it, as if expecting some sort of violence from Jim. That was curious. Jim took another step forward, just to test, and it seemed that John had to force himself to remain in place. Jim cocked his head to the side slightly as he considered John, eyes narrowing a bit.

“You can ask him, I’m sure he’ll tell you I was there,” John said, eyeing Jim as if suspicious of what he was doing. Jim made a sudden move, like he was starting for John, and John leapt back so fast that he actually fell to the floor, landing hard on the linoleum floor. “What the bloody hell are you doing?” he demanded to know, anger replacing the fear in his expression, those cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Just testing a theory, Johnny boy,” Jim answered, returning to his desk, giving John the space that he required and slipping into the use of the nickname as a matter of habit, Jim not particularly caring about formality, especially not when they were alone like this. He just didn’t have the energy to care, more focused on the something wrong with John that he couldn’t quite pinpoint. The mention of Sherlock’s name had only tipped him off more, having heard before of the rather…close relationship between him and John. Almost too close, if the gossip of certain students was to be believed, but Jim hadn’t immediately bought into it. Students did so love a scandal, and ever since the incident with what’s-his-name—something with an L—who had become obsessed with his student when he was just a freshman, the school had been relatively scandal free. Perhaps they were hoping to recreate that scene, have another murdered family rock the town.

Or perhaps they were simply small-minded idiots with nothing better to do than accuse an innocent teacher of being inappropriate with a student. Not that Sherlock was entirely innocent—no, Jim didn’t believe that he was. The animosity between the two of them was well-known by now, to the point that people who had never had either of them as teachers knew about their…not exactly rivalry, per say. There wasn’t much of a rivalry because Sherlock wasn’t much of a rival; sure he was less boring than the rest of them, but he was too like Jim to be interesting. They were too similar to be compatible in any way, even as rivals. Sherlock was too…good. Clean. Pristine. Or at least, Jim had thought so. Now he wasn’t so sure.

“Lift up your shirt.”

John stared at him, looking rather adorably confused. “What?” he asked, not the most articulate thing he could have said, but clearly the first thing that came to mind.

“Lift up your shirt and I’ll help you with the homework like you want,” Jim said, tone nonchalant, casual, like this was an everyday occurrence. “I just want to see something.”

Oh, and yes, there was fear in John’s eyes at that, just a flash before it disappeared again, covered by the stoicism that John perpetually wore like a security blanket. He hid it all under confusion, brow dropped low over pretty blue eyes that Jim found rather fetching, and had thought so before. “What do you want to see?” he asked, a heavy layer of suspicion coating his tone.

“Does it matter?” Jim asked, making a slight face. “I’m bored and it’ll entertain me. Do you want help with the homework or not?”  
John hesitated, clearly struggling with his desire to gain extra help, but also clearly unwilling to lift his shirt, and Jim doubted that was out of a sense of modesty. No, something else was going on here. After a minute, however, he complied, using a hand to partially lift up one side of his shirt before quickly dropping it down again. Ah, but the brief glimpse had been all that Jim needed to see.

Because there, obvious on John’s hip, were fingernail marks, dug deep enough into his skin that they must have drawn blood at the time they were made, which had to have been recently, as well as a large, spreading purple bruise. That wasn’t the ordinary mark of a quick shag before running late to catch up with extra help. That wasn’t an ordinary mark for a shag period, and in a second Jim understood what was going on. It was plain as day, how could he not have noticed it before? Surely John must have worn the evidence before, and Jim just hadn’t been focused enough on him to notice. Which was strange, considering his focus tended to gravitate towards John Watson perhaps more than it should have. Just occasionally, just in class when Jim was bored. He wasn’t particularly sure why, but it did. Sometimes.

But if Jim was right about this…oh no, Sherlock was in trouuuubleeee. If Jim could prove it. Oh, he’d feel a smug sense of satisfaction at that. Sherlock Holmes, a community member of unimpeachable character, caught quite literally with his trousers down, abusing a student. Jim had been looking for blackmail on Sherlock for years, and the man had proven too damn pristine to have any dirt that Jim could dig up. Well, now he’d hit the jackpot. John would be his key in.

John…John, who was very determinedly not looking at Jim, looking at the floor instead as if ashamed, as if he knew what Jim had seen, knew that despite how brief the glimpse was, Jim had been keen enough to catch what was wrong with this picture. Oh, Johnny boy knew, didn’t he? The poor dear looked so ashamed, so shaken…no doubt he blamed himself for it, believed Sherlock when he told him it was his fault, that he was just too tempting to resist.

What…what was this? Was Jim actually feeling pity right now? Is that what this was? Some sort of sympathy for John and his situation? Jim hadn’t felt sympathy in…well, he couldn’t remember the last time that he had actually felt anything resembling either sympathy or pity. It just wasn’t an emotion that computed, not something that clicked for him. He’d been diagnosed with antisocial personality disorder before, and it was apt. He didn’t feel sympathy for people, that was a simple fact. So how could John stir up a feeling in him that he hardly recognized?

“Can I have help with the homework now, sir?” John asked, and there was something in his voice that was so downtrodden that Jim’s heart gave a twinge. God, that was a strange feeling, wasn’t it?

“Don’t call me sir when we’re alone, Johnny boy, it bores me,” Jim answered, taking a seat on the edge of his desk, his eyes quickly, keenly moving over John as he studied him. “You can call me whatever you’d like, there’s no need for formality, it’s just dull.” He made a slight face, then turned his eyes back to John, looking him over with absolutely no shame whatsoever, quite openly studying him. John shifted underneath his gaze, though he seemed to be getting back the confidence needed to make eye contact, his eyes lifting to Jim’s for a moment before dropping again.

“Pull out the homework and we’ll go over it,” Jim said, crossing his arms against his chest and sounding incredibly bored, trying to throw John off and make it seem like he didn’t know what was going on between Sherlock and John, because he didn’t want to make John panic, didn’t want him to shut himself off and hide away. In truth, he was bubbling with excitement, a delighted kind of energy hidden just below the surface because this was something new, this was something interesting, a way to get back at Sherlock for his years of being the insufferable little arrogant ponce that he was. This was Jim’s revenge.  
And, of course, he’d be helping out John, which for some reason gave him a warm feeling in his chest that turned into an ache when he thought about what John had been through. Why did it make him angry? Why did it make him want to hurt Sherlock? Jim didn’t _care_ , that wasn’t an emotion that he experienced. He didn’t experience emotions period, that was one advantage that he had over the rest of the world. No need for messy feelings to get in his way, but he was having them now and he didn’t understand _why_. What was it about John that made this different?

He supposed it was John himself. There was something different about John, something unique about him that Jim had noticed a while ago and hadn’t actively studied yet, hadn’t had the time to. He turned his mind to it now, as John pulled out his notebook and textbook, turning over in his mind why exactly John was different for him. Easy enough to figure out, though it seemed difficult at first. He only had to figure out why Sherlock liked John, then he would know why he liked him as well. They were similar enough that their motivations were usually the same, only Sherlock had— _had_ —seemed to be motivated by good while Jim was motivated by darker forces. Of course, it’d turned out that Sherlock was actually worse than Jim, because while Jim may have had some twisted desires he hadn’t sexually assaulted a teenager. Most likely numerous times, now that he was thinking about it and considering how many times John had missed Jim’s seminars because he was staying after with Sherlock.

“When did it start?” he asked, interrupting John in the middle of explaining what problem he was having so much trouble with in the homework.

“I—beg your pardon?” John asked, clearly taken aback by the sudden interruption.

Jim straightened up, uncrossing his arms and taking a step away from the desk, partially towards John, who looked uneasy about it. Of course he did, the poor thing would never be able to trust another teacher again. And Jim had a certain reputation that usually made him seem intimidating, though John had never seemed intimidated by him before. No, brave, steadfast John would never. John didn’t seem so brave as Jim reached for his hip, fingers gently, so gently curling around it. “This.”

John swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing up and down with the motion of his throat, and Jim nearly reached out to touch it, fascinated by the movement. He restrained himself though, cinnamon eyes darting between John’s as he waited breathlessly for an answer, waited to see what John would do now that he was caught. Would he choose the boring way out, and deny it? Or crumble and confess the whole thing? No, John was too strong, too stoic to crumble that easily. He’d certainly deny it.  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” was his answer, and of course it was. He wouldn’t give in that easily. Jim would have to charm him there.

“Don’t play dumb, Johnny boy, it’s not a good look for you,” Jim said, wrinkling his nose in distaste. The hand on John’s hip slipped up underneath his shirt to feel the marks themselves, and he didn’t miss how John automatically flinched away from him, though he didn’t pull away entirely. Too good at taking orders, especially from teachers, Jim was sure. What an unfortunate thing for such a pretty boy. “When did it start?”

John simply shook his head this time, not outright lying to him this time but still making it clear that he wasn’t going to cooperate. Jim groaned, walking around his desk to drop down in his chair, propping his feet up on the desk and looking at John, eyes nearly burning into him. Now that he had a new toy to play with, he wasn’t about to let it go. Not when it was such a good one too, and so important.

“Let me guess. Dear old Sherly asked you to stay after one day and your little schoolboy heart gave a thump because—” he gasped, adopting a look of shock “—‘Mr. Holmes finally noticed me’! Only you didn’t realize Mr. Holmes plays a little too roughly with his toys until it was too late, and at that point he wouldn’t listen when you said no.” He put on a face of sympathy, the corners of his mouth tilting down in an exaggerated frown, like one of the tragedy masks from a playbill. “Is that how it went, Johnny boy?”

John didn’t answer him, giving him a flat glare as he looked back at him, clearly unamused with this game Jim was enjoying so much.

“Oh, no, let me guess, _you_ were the one to start it. You wanted to play naughty schoolboy and teacher and got a little bit more than you bargained for, is that it? Tell me, Johnny boy. Simon says.”

“That’s not—” John stopped himself before he went any further, biting his lip in clear frustration. Jim’s eyes glimmered with intrigue; John was close, so close, the teasing getting to him, making him want to right the wrongs that Jim was saying, the accusations that he was making. Jim knew that John hadn’t become involved in it willingly, he was just poking at him, just trying to find a hole in his defenses, the gap that would make John crumble and spill out all of his secrets for Jim.

“How did it go?” Jim asked, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial stage whisper. “Did you beg for it the first time? Did he do it across the desk? Or perhaps pick a convenient closet?”

“Stop it.” John’s voice was hard, flinty, and oh, good, it was good to see that the fight hadn’t gone out of him entirely. He still had an edge to him, a hint of iron and steel underneath those woolen jumpers. Jim had always admired the way that John could go from soft and nearly cuddly to as hard as granite wrapped in steel depending on the situation and what was needed at the time. He wondered what variation in the middle Sherlock saw and felt a twisting sensation in his chest that he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt before.

He cocked his head to the side playfully, a smile playing across his lips. “Then tell me, Johnny boy. Mother may I?”

John was glaring at him now, solidly glaring, something that wasn’t quite hatred in his eyes, and Jim was sure that that animosity wasn’t meant for him, but for someone else entirely. It was simply being redirected to suit John’s purposes for the moment, since right now, Jim could be seen as an enemy. An antagonist, the big bad wolf who wanted to know the secret that John couldn’t divulge. _What big eyes you have. What big teeth_ , he thought as he eyed the hickeys on John’s neck. Poor, dear John, who had never done anything to bring this on himself. Whose only crime was being too delectable for a genius to withstand.

“I just want to help,” Jim offered, voice slightly, falsely mournful. John immediately scoffed at that, and a smile popped onto Jim’s lips, glad that John wasn’t desperate enough to have lost his ability to call Jim on his bullshit.

“I don’t know what you want, but it isn’t that,” he said, crossing his arms against his chest, a defensive position that Jim took note of. Not that he could blame John for being defensive.

“I’ve only been your teacher for half a year and you think you know me that well?” Jim asked, amused that John could already draw that conclusion.  
“I know enough,” John answered. “And I know you don’t do things out of the goodness of your heart.”

“Maybe you’re my exception, Johnny boy. You’re certainly Sherlock’s.”

Any smile that had been lingering on John’s lips was gone in an instant, and a moment later he was picking up his textbook and notebook, stuffing them back into his bag. “You know what, I’ll phone Sarah and ask her,” he said, tugging the zipper on the bag up, and Jim realized that his chance was slipping away from him and once John walked out that door he wouldn’t get another opportunity because John would shut down and shut him out. If he was going to get him, it had to be now.

He jumped to his feet, John instantly flinching away at the sudden, unexpected movement. John leaned back as Jim leaned forward, hands on his desks and any trace of levity gone out of his expression. “I’m serious, John. I can help you.”

John was watching him with a guarded expression, caution clear in his eyes and body language. It wasn’t exactly that he didn’t seem to believe Jim; it more seemed like he was suspicious of Jim’s motives. Which, really, he should have been, but what an odd thing. Why would he care about Jim’s motivations when Jim was offering to save him from his abuser? Unless John didn’t want to be saved.

“OH. Is that it, Johnny boy? Are you having too much fun to let me stop it?” Jim asked, and a smile popped back onto his lips. “Like playing Daddy with Sherlock, like the way he plays rough with you? You can tell me, I won’t tell anyone. Cross my heart.”

“Shut. UP.” The words were growled through gritted teeth, John’s frustration making an appearance again that Jim delighted in, knowing he was close, oh so close to getting the truth out of him. So very close. John just needed a _liiiittle_ push in the right direction, and Jim would have what he wanted.

Jim’s eyes were gleaming as he leaned forward a bit more, dropping his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. “If it’s consensual I’ll leave it be, Johnny boy. It doesn’t matter to me who Sherlock Holmes fucks in his classroom. Just tell me it is, make me believe it, and I’ll leave it be.”

He could see John struggling, see the pain in those blue eyes because John so clearly wanted to confess it, but at the same time was being held back by something, no doubt whatever threats Sherlock had made to him about if he told someone. He had to wonder what exactly those were, what Sherlock would use to scare John into silence. Surely he wouldn’t threaten John himself; no, if it had continued for this long, Sherlock must be _smitten_. He would never threaten harm to John, because he wouldn’t be able to follow through. Besides, John wouldn’t be fazed by threats to himself. He wasn’t the type to care about his own personal safety, more the safety and security of others. So someone else, then.

“What did he tell you, pet? That he would kill anyone you told? Or did he say he’d go after your family?” He tsked, watching John’s expression carefully for a reaction. He had to admire how stoic John was, how committed to giving Jim absolutely nothing for his troubles. Beautiful. So closed off to the rest of the world, carefully guarded and hidden by walls that at first seemed too high to climb. Jim would just have to go through them using force, then. “He’s lying to you. Sherlock Holmes isn’t a murderer. He’s too…” he waved a hand, looking for the proper word and making a slight face when he found it “…principled. He doesn’t have it in him.”

John laughed, short, sharp, and bitter. “You don’t know him like I do,” he said, a darkly amused smile on his lips. “You don’t know him at all. He’d kill someone for me, I know he would. He’s—” He stopped, seeming to realize that he was saying too much, and the excitement that had been rising in Jim’s chest died down again.

“No, please, Johnny boy. Tell me. Tell me what he’s like when you’re alone,” he said, leaning against his desk, further towards John.

“I should go,” John said, interrupting the flow of the conversation, and Jim instantly frowned. No, that wasn’t how this was supposed to go. John was supposed to cave now, spill, keep going and tell Daddy Jim all of his secrets. He was supposed to confess the whole thing, tell Jim the whole sorry, sordid story. Instead he was shutting up, closing off, and that wasn’t what Jim wanted at all. His hand shot out to grab ahold of John’s forearm, and John immediately jerked back, though didn’t manage to free himself, staring at Jim with mostly alarm in his expression.

“If you don’t tell me about it, I’ll go to him myself,” Jim whispered, something dark in his expression that seemed to scare John, as it should have. As much as he was sure Sherlock seemed more dangerous to John, the immediate threat, Jim was much more dangerous. And John seemed to be realizing that.

“He’d kill you,” he breathed, tone caught somewhere between startled and alarmed. “You couldn’t confront him, he’d murder you in the middle of the school.”

Jim smiled, a broad, Cheshire cat grin. “I’m not afraid of Sherlock Holmes. Though your concern is touching, Johnny boy. I always knew I was your favorite.” He punctuated this sentence with a wink that seemed to slide right past John, who was still staring at him, that brow furrowed low over bright blue eyes. “If you don’t tell me what I want to know, I will go to him, and I will confront him, and I will threaten to report him to the school. What happens after that, wellllll…we’ll see if he’s the big bad wolf you seem to think he is.”

John was shaking his head in an instant, intent on stopping Jim before he even started. “No, you can’t do that,” he said, and Jim wiggled his eyebrows.

“Can’t I, Johnny boy?”

There was a minute of silence between them, heavy and laden with unspoken words that neither of them would say, not from a lack of bravery, but more a desire not to be cruel. At least, that was how it was on Jim’s side; anything he said was just going to put more pressure on John, who was already at a breaking point, liable to fall apart any second. It was obvious in the tense set of his shoulders, the firm press of his lips together, the flat, stoic expression in those oceanic eyes. John was at a pivotal moment, and Jim didn’t dare try to push him any further. Instead he waited, nearly holding his breath as he watched John with tawny brown eyes.

Finally; “Alright. What do you want to know?”

***

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”

The words were hissed, a sibilant whisper that still carried easily across the small space of the classroom. John froze upon hearing the words, his back turned to Sherlock where he was putting his things away in his bag. He could hear the door as it clicked shut, blocking out the sounds of his classmates as they flooded out of the classroom, the turn of a lock coming just a second later. Great. Now he was trapped.

He fought down the rising tide of panic in his chest, continuing to put his things away in his bag like everything was normal and that tone didn’t hold enough icy anger to freeze him in place, colder than the temperature outside right now. “Find out about what?” he asked, deciding to sound as distant as possible, lost in his own world as he often was now. Even his friends had started commenting on it, but how was he supposed to explain it? ‘Oh yeah, and by the way our AP Chemistry teacher is abusing me behind everyone’s backs?’ No, he wouldn’t breathe a word of it to anyone, except to Jim, apparently. Mr. Moriarty. Who he’d never seen as an ally.

_A larger predator_. Wasn’t that what he’d needed? And Jim definitely was a predator. But was he a bigger one than Sherlock? He’d certainly shown that side of himself when he’d cornered John, using a mixture of cunning and blackmail to get him to confess. And then the promise, at the end of their conversation.

_“I’ll take care of him for you, Johnny boy.”_

He wanted so desperately to believe those words, but he just couldn’t bring himself to. It was too good to be true, an offer of help, a promise that he was going to be saved from his own personal monster. No, he couldn’t believe it, not until he actually saw the results himself. And who knew when that would be? He had no idea what Jim’s plan was, what he was thinking. Whether he’d go to the police, or take care of it himself. A lot of rumors abounded about Jim, and several made him out to be some sort of dangerous mastermind who secretly controlled the entire school. Maybe his plan was as simple as getting Sherlock fired. The problem was that John _didn’t know_ , and that uncertainty was unsettling.

“Jim. Moriarty.”

Oh no. Oh no oh no oh no oh no oh no—Sherlock knew, god, how did he know about that? How did he know what John had been up to, who he’d been speaking to and about what? How, how, how, how was it possible? No, he couldn’t know. He was guessing. Making conjectures. Grasping at jealous straws in an attempt to get John to admit to something he hadn’t done. That was it. That was all.

John felt the slide of long fingers through his short hair and nearly jumped, not having even heard Sherlock’s approach. He blamed that on his sleepless night the night before, where he’d tossed and turned and thought about his meeting with Jim into the wee hours of the morning, unable to find any sort of rest. But that was his life now. If he hadn’t been thinking about Jim, he’d have been thinking about Sherlock, trying desperately to find a way out of the situation and coming up with nothing. Now, technically, he had a way out, even though it didn’t feel like it since he didn’t know what Jim was planning and that made him more nervous than anything else.

John didn’t turn around, didn’t look at Sherlock, still resolutely putting his books into his bags like nothing was wrong. “My AP Calculus teacher? What about him?”

“Don’t play dumb, John, it’s not attractive on you,” Sherlock said, and suddenly the hand in his hair tightened and _yanked_ , pulling his head back so he was forced to see Sherlock.

Oh god he was furious. It was obvious to see, plain as day, written all over his features for John to see. He was fuming, and it was obvious in a second that he knew exactly what conversation John had had with Jim, though how was still up in the air, and John would have asked if he had the courage. For now, though, he stayed absolutely silent, afraid of saying a word, of even breathing. His breaths were short, stressed, nearly panting as he looked up at Sherlock with wide, fearful blue eyes.

And oh, Sherlock seemed to enjoy that. He was at least smiling, though it was a dark little thing that hardly counted as a smile. Humorless, and quite clearly still very angry. God, he was so dangerous right now, John had never seen him this mad though he had seen him angry before and that was bad enough. Yesterday, when he’d tried to run, when he’d thrown Sherlock off, he’d been so angry, he’d retaliated with violence. That was minor compared to this, so what was he going to do now? Kill him?

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out about your little meeting? My brother installed cameras all over this school, he wanted to keep an eye on me. Of course, he disapproves of my relationship with you, but he wouldn’t dare interfere, oh no. But those cameras—” here he yanked John’s hair back again, causing him to hiss in pain “—proved very useful yesterday. I was just watching to see you leave, and look what I find instead. You go to Jim Moriarty of all people, begging for his help when you quite clearly don’t need it on your homework, you’re smart enough to figure it out on your own, I know you are. So why were you really there, John? Did you intend to confess everything to him, or were you just trying to find another teacher to fuck you like the good little slut you are? Which is it, John?”

“Neither,” John gasped out. “I needed help with the homework, I swear to you.” It appeared that Sherlock cared less about John’s confession to Jim, jealousy making the question of whether he’d gone to Jim to seduce him much more important. But John would never, he already had one lecherous teacher in his life, he didn’t need another one. Besides, he didn’t see Jim that way. He saw Jim as another predator, just one of a different variety, one that could possibly help. _A larger predator._ One that had a slim chance of helping, though right now it looked like John was alone to deal with Sherlock’s rage. And he wasn’t sure what Sherlock was capable of right now.

“Please, I promise you, I didn’t mean to do it. He threatened me.”

Sherlock gave him an almost amused little smile, though it was just as dark as his other ones. “Oh trust me John, I heard. His pathetic little threat to go directly to me, did you think he would actually do it? Jim Moriarty is a cowardly little spider who hides in his webs and pulls the strings he needs as he needs them. He wouldn’t confront me directly, he’d rather go through a third party. Easier for him, and much safer. He lied to you, John, and you fell for it completely, you should know better than to trust a man like that. Or did you want out so desperately that you were looking for an excuse to confess? Is that it?”

He shook John by the hand in his hair and John cried out, every tug on his scalp painful, sharp, reminding him that Sherlock had complete control in this situation and he had absolutely nothing. No way out, no allies, nothing but his wits, and those were useless compared to Sherlock’s. Sherlock was better, faster, stronger, smarter, and John suddenly knew that he was in the most dangerous situation he’d ever been in in his life. His pulse picked up speed, heart hammering in his chest until it was nearly all he could hear, echoing in his ears.

“Well which is it, John?” Sherlock hissed, leaning in close to John, those goddamn eyes icy blue and piercing. “I know you’re not stupid, so was that it? You wanted to leave? Why would you do that to me John, why would you try to hurt me?”

“Because I don’t love you!” It was cried out, an exclamation that he hadn’t meant to make and had slipped out on its own, the truth coming out of its own accord. And god, it was true. He didn’t feel anything even resembling affection for Sherlock, any good feelings he’d associated with him long gone, erased by months of abuse and pain. Sherlock was insane, delusional, having deluded himself into thinking that John felt the same. That he enjoyed what they did, despite how he struggled and fought nearly every time. Though those instances were getting rarer and rarer, John steadily being worn down by the same thing happening day after day with no end in sight. He’d practically stopped fighting, too tired to try anymore, and maybe Sherlock took that as a sign that he reciprocated, that he wanted this as well. Maybe he just thought John was playing hard to get. Whatever it was, it was sick, and John didn’t know what to say but the truth anymore.

There was a minute of absolute silence in the room, the only sound John’s quick, labored breathing. He could see Sherlock trying to process it, struggling to accept it, and he could barely breathe, and certainly wasn’t going to try to move, despite the awkward, uncomfortable angle that Sherlock was holding him at. He didn’t want to risk angering Sherlock any more than he already had, and he wasn’t sure what Sherlock’s reaction to this would be.

After a minute, though, Sherlock released him entirely. John straightened up but didn’t dare take a step back, too afraid of the consequences if he did. He stayed absolutely still, caught in place as Sherlock’s dark brow furrowed over those light eyes, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. As if it didn’t make any sense, was the least logical thing he’d ever heard and his reason based brain couldn’t quite understand it. But in a moment his expression cleared, and John steeled himself, unsure of what was coming out.

“Well, John…” he started, lifting his eyes to John’s, one hand reaching for his pocket. “I hate to be a cliché, but how does the saying go? ‘If I can’t have you, no one can’? Yes, that’s it. If I can’t have you, no one can.”

John saw a flash of silver and then suddenly there was a knife buried in his gut and he cried out, grabbing onto the arm of the hand that held the knife. Sherlock was looking sorrowfully at him, calm, so calm, and John couldn’t breathe, stumbling back a bit, the knife sliding out of him. Sherlock pursued him as he stumbled back, crashing into the desks before falling to a seat on the floor as he covered the wound with his hand, staring up at Sherlock with his brow furrowed, not quite able to believe what had just happened. That the blood covering the knife in Sherlock’s hand was his, that he was starting to bleed out, body starting to go into shock at the injury. He wanted to be a doctor, he knew how this worked. His pulse would become weak, faint, he’d start to feel lightheaded—that was setting in already—his breathing would turn rapid and shallow, he’d feel nauseous and his blood pressure would drop like a rock. First came shock, then came death. Oh god, he was going to die, wasn’t he?

The last sight he saw was Sherlock approaching him with the knife, sorrow in his eyes and bearing. And as his eyes slipped shut, he heard, “I really did love you, you know.”

***

“John. Johnny boy. Time to wake up, pet.”

There was the gentle feeling of a hand on his cheek, someone lightly stroking it in an almost reverent way. Gentle, far too gentle, so different from the touches that John was used to, and blue eyes fluttered open to see a pair of cinnamon eyes hanging over him, a pair of eyes he knew well.

“Jim?” he asked, though croaked was a more appropriate word. His tongue felt like sandpaper, his entire mouth a desert. Jim disappeared for a moment into John’s peripheral vision, coming back a moment later with a cup of water, helping John sit up enough to actually drink. Something in John’s abdomen twinged and he let out a soft noise, wondering what he’d done to his stom—

Oh god. Sherlock.

Instant panic.

“Where—he—I—Sherlock—” He couldn’t get the proper words out and he felt like he was drowning all of the sudden, unspoken words making his tongue heavy with the things he couldn’t say.

“It’s alright, Johnny boy. He’s not here. You’re in the hospital.”

“But where is he?” John demanded to know, a hint of panic in his voice because he had to know, absolutely had to be sure that Sherlock couldn’t hurt him anymore.

Jim made a slight, equivocating face. “Well, unfortunately, he managed to get away before the police got there. But it’s alright, pet,” he said, seeing the panicked look that instantly settled on John’s features. “You’re safe with me. I’ll protect you.”

Oh god, he wanted to believe that, he did, but how could he? Sherlock had already proven as dangerous as he’d thought he was, so how could he believe that Jim would protect him? He closed his eyes, feeling Jim’s hand as it closed over his own, a gesture that was meant to make him feel safe and only served to do the opposite.

Because he knew, somewhere deep inside, that Sherlock hadn’t meant to kill him. He’d meant for him to live, because this wasn’t the end of it. Sherlock would be back, and next time he’d either succeed in killing John, or succeed in taking him.

And there was no one who could protect him. Jim had promised to, and failed to prevent this. So how was he supposed to protect him now? How could he help the damage that had already been done? John would have a permanent scar from this, a constant reminder of Sherlock and all the things he’d taken from him. Sherlock would always be there in his life, even if he didn’t come back. But John knew he would.

“I told the police about your…affair with Sherlock. They’re going to want to ask you some questions,” Jim said, and John nodded faintly, feeling a bit lightheaded in general. That was just the shock of this all, though. The inability to believe that this had actually happened to him, though he wore the evidence on his stomach. Permanently. And god, he didn’t even know what to do with himself now. Everyone would know, everyone would hear about it. Some people would claim it was consensual, say that he enjoyed it. Others may blame him and say he came onto Sherlock first. But he didn’t care about that. He only cared about Sherlock, and making sure that he was no longer a threat.

Deep breaths.

He opened his eyes to look at Jim, who seemed to be watching him with actual concern in his eyes. That was odd. “You can send them in, if you like,” he said, steeling himself for what was to come. “I’m ready to talk to them.”

***

Sherlock couldn’t remember ever being this angry before. It was seared into his bones, set his flesh on fire and made his eyes burn. Every one of his nerves was aflame, hyper aware of his fury and the consequences that came with it. His brain was nearly out of the equation now, rage taking it over and ruling out logical thought because he was so. Goddamn. _Angry_.

John had betrayed him. John had gone to Jim fucking Moriarty of all people, and betrayed him. How could he? How could he have done that, hurt Sherlock like that? Why did he want out of this relationship that they had? Why would he want to be away from Sherlock period?

_“Because I don’t love you!”_

No, that wasn’t true. He knew it couldn’t be true, because John loved Sherlock, perhaps not as much as Sherlock loved him, but still loved him. They loved each other, it was mutual, John just enjoyed struggling against him and pretending to not enjoy what was going on because he was trying to preserve the relationship they’d had before, the proper one that wasn’t taboo. John was so proper, of course he was reluctant to admit that he enjoyed illicit relations with his teacher. That was all. John was lying to him.

But Sherlock had limited time and needed an escape route, besides needing to teach John a lesson about lying. The knife was already in his pocket, his anger making him believe it was a necessity to carry it. And thank god that he did, because a simple stab wound was all it took for John to realize his mistake.

Truly, he felt bad about it. He did. He’d never wanted to hurt John, but it had become necessary.  And he certainly didn’t intend to kill him. The wound was carefully calculated, carefully aimed so he wouldn’t kill John, simply incapacitate him and put him into shock, make him black out so Sherlock could make his escape. Of course, he stole one last kiss before he left, gently stroking John’s cheek before leaving, sure to get out of there before the police arrived.

Mycroft would protect him. He knew that for certain, with every fiber of his being. Mycroft would hide him away, ship him off to some other country for the time being. But he’d manage to find his way back, eventually. Once this all died down. And he’d find John, and he’d have to choose between killing him and taking him, which was really up to John. He knew what option he’d prefer, but it all depended on what John did. Because he loved John, more than he’d loved anything in the world.

**Author's Note:**

> The lyrics at the beginning of this fic come from the song w.a.m.s by Fall Out Boy. I also realized while working on the fic that England--I believe--doesn't have AP classes, so I based the school system on the American school system, sorry for the inaccuracy!


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